


(Don't) Tell My Dads I'm Marrying A Werewolf

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Don't Tell My Dads [5]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demons, I Love You A Lot, I'm an AWFUL person, M/M, Rimming, Sexy Times, Stiles Stilinski is a Winchester, Talk of Fisting, you guys are amazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is coming...</p><p>Stiles has graduated high school and is getting married. Finally...Maybe? Yes, he's definitely getting married. But something in him doesn't feel right. Every time he pictures his wedding day, all he can see is something dark and bleak. Azazel might be dead, but the battle he planned to bring to Beacon Hills is far from over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Few More Moments.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. WowWowWowWow.
> 
> I can't express how ridiculously sorry I am about the wait between the last part and this one. I planned to get this first chapter up in May, and that (quite obviously) never happened. I could list excuses for a good half a page, but really I've just been exhausted. I haven't been writing as often, but as soon as I made myself churn this first chapter out, it really did me some good. I'm hoping I can get out of this funk and keep writing for you guys!
> 
> And just so it doesn't blindside you, there's some sessy times here in the first chapter. Heyyyyy!!! B)
> 
> I am so very happy that you all are joining me for this last part!!! I'm so excited to show you how Stiles and Derek start their crazy, amazing, frustrating, adorable lives together. 
> 
> Let us begin!!!

Stiles stared down at his diploma in a daze. Four years of doing homework in between fighting big, bad nasties. Four years of studying for tests while running for his life. Four years of dealing with teachers who thought he was no more than a spaz while he watched his friends and family put themselves in harm's way...and die. 

Four years, and there he was, staring at a piece of paper that was supposed to represent some great milestone in his life. And, unsurprisingly, he didn't feel a damn thing. 

He hadn't felt a lot of things lately. He knew he was supposed to. There was plenty to be emotional about. He was getting married in a few months, insistent about keeping the date they had settled on despite Azazel's death (and Lydia's disapproval). But he just couldn't muster the appropriate amount of enthusiasm that was expected of him. 

It didn't feel like cold feet. 

And it definitely wasn't because he didn't love Derek. 

There was just something... _wrong_. His chest was tight, heavy, like he was on the verge of a panic attack. All the time. His stomach was constantly in knots, his muscles tense. And he found himself looking at the engagement ring on his finger more and more. 

Derek was worried. Stiles could see it when they were together. But he wasn't saying anything, and the teen couldn't bring himself to say anything either. 

“Stiles?” 

Stiles jumped and looked up, his graduation cap falling askew on his head as he found his Pop watching him from a few feet away. They were outside the school, surrounded by smiling teenagers holding diplomas similar to Stiles' own as they hugged their families and celebrated.

Stiles took his cap off and let one corner of his mouth quirk. “Hey, Pop.”

“You okay?” the older man asked, approaching him slowly as people weaved around them.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice cracking on the word. He cleared his throat. “Just thinking.” His gaze wandered back down to his diploma. “I wish Dad was here.”

It was a low blow. Of course he wanted his dad to be there, missed him everyday. But his dad wasn't entirely the reason he was acting the way he was—it was just a convenient excuse (one that made him feel increasingly guilty the more he used it).

His Pop nodded and pulled him into a hug, pressing a kiss into his hairline. “Me too, kid,” he murmured.

Stiles wrapped his arms around the man and squeezed, hoping the contact would alleviate some of the anxious knots in his gut. It didn't, and he sighed, pulling out of the embrace and allowing himself to be steered towards the car, where his uncles and Derek stood waiting. 

0 o 0 o 0

“I'm proud of you, you know,” Derek whispered into the bare skin of Stiles' abdomen, kissing a trail to the teen's bony hip and sucking hard. 

Stiles arched off the bed in Derek's room, mouth falling open. The werewolf watched hungrily, eyes burning a deep red at the sight of his mate squirming beneath him. 

The teen's fingers clutched at the headboard desperately. Derek had told him to keep them there or he would have to tie him down. The fabric of one of Derek's old silk ties currently circling the teen's wrists and wound around the headboard spoke volumes of Stiles' self control. 

“Are you?” the teen asked breathlessly, eyes opening slightly as he panted. 

“Yes,” Derek murmured, nosing into the crease where the young man's leg met his groin and licking a long, wet stripe up to his hip again. 

“How—” Stiles cut off with a strangled noise, pulled harshly on his restraints as Derek nipped at his skin and dragged semi-clawed fingernails down his sides. “How proud?”

Derek smirked, resting his chin on Stiles' stomach and staring up the length of the teen. “Very.”

The muscles beneath the werewolf's chin fluttered, and Stiles' chest heaved. “Show me,” he begged, pupils blown wide. “Please, Derek.”

Derek surged upward, the rough fabric of his jeans rubbing the teen's bared erection and making the young man gasp. He captured Stiles' kiss-swollen lips and swallowed the noise whole, tongue delving deep and swirling along the roof of his mouth. Stiles lifted his legs, hooking his ankles at the small of the older man's back and rutting up against him with an almost pained sound. 

Derek slowly and gently reached behind him, unhooking Stiles' legs and ignoring the noise of protest as he moved back onto his knees to stare down at the shaking teen. 

“Turn over,” he demanded softly. Stiles' licked his lips and released a shaky breath, flailing as he flipped himself over. The older man leaned forward, fingers ghosting over Stiles' crossed wrists and giving the tie a tug. “You okay?” It was still loose enough, not cutting off any circulation, though the teen's knuckles were white from clenching the headboard so tightly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, turning his head and kissing Derek gratefully, “I'm good.”

Derek nodded, hands coasting up the young man's arms, his shoulders, his back. “I love you, Stiles.”

The teen smiled. “I love you, too.”

Something in Derek's chest gave a painful jolt. The words weren't a lie—he could tell Stiles meant them. But there was still something off about the way he said them. The werewolf had done his best to be a comfort to his mate after his father's death, had waited until Stiles was the one to push intimacy back into their relationship. 

And as much as Derek loved being _intimate_ , he couldn't deny that it felt more like Stiles was just going through the motions, that he was acting the way people expected him to act while underneath he was just...different.

Derek could relate, knew the symptoms of post-traumatic stress better than anyone. But there wasn't much he could do until Stiles wanted his help. He knew first-hand that asking the teen about it or offering any advice so soon after the events two months before could make Stiles retreat further into himself. Derek had, when his sister had forced him to see a therapist after the fire. Two-hundred dollars an hour for the young man to sit in a comfortable chair and watch the time tick by.

So he waited. He made sure Stiles knew he was there— _would_ be there—whenever he decided he wanted to talk. 

And in the mean time....

Derek let his hands wander over skin he knew very well, fingers splayed wide. Stiles breathed and shuddered under his touch. 

“Derek,” Stiles whined, tugging at his restraints and burying his face into the pillow under him. 

Derek shushed him, hands roaming and kneading. “I've got you, baby.” 

Stiles tensed, and the older man realized his mistake—it was what Dean used to call Castiel. Derek leaned forward, pressing a kiss behind the teen's ear. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Stiles turned his head and nodded with a sigh. “I'm okay.”

Derek leaned back again, dragging his nails along either side of the teen's spine then flaring his fingers and curling them around Stiles' hips. He tugged the younger man up onto his knees, kneading his ass and using his thumbs to spread his cheeks apart. 

He let one thumb drag over Stiles' entrance, reveling in the sound the teen made when his thumbnail caught the rim. Without hesitation, Derek leaned forward and ran the flat of his tongue from the base of Stiles' balls up to the fluttering ring of muscle, circling it slowly. He tasted heady, musky, salty. Derek held the taste on his tongue and closed his eyes. 

“Fuck!” Stiles yelped, and the headboard shook with the force he tugged on his restraints. “Fuck, Derek! Can you...Can you do that again?”

Derek smiled and blew a gentle stream of air over the wet entrance before starting a steady, deliberate trail at the small of the teen's back and working his way down instead. Stiles' toes curled as the werewolf circled the small, puckered hole, letting the tip of his tongue breach it and swirl briefly before pulling out again. 

“More,” Stiles begged, fingers clenching the pillow beneath his head. “I need more.”

Derek obliged, letting his tongue draw lazy circles around the hole before delving back in, this time as far as he could push into the tight heat. Stiles groaned and hitched his hips upward. There was a thin string of precum dripping from his dick, smearing against the sheets. Derek knew he would smell it long after they were washed, and his wolf shuddered in pleasure. His own dick was painfully hard. 

But this was about Stiles. He'd live one day without finding release...probably. The noises Stiles was making had to be illegal. 

“Derek!” the teen moaned as the older man slowly pushed a finger in beside his tongue, twisting the digit from side to side as he continued to lick into him, sucking and nibbling the rim. Stiles was shaking hard, and Derek's plans for him were barely started. He added two more fingers carefully, pulling back and watching his mate fall apart under his touch. 

“Derek, I'm gonna...” The teen gave a choked noise. 

Derek quickly reached around the young man, fingers wrapping around the squeezing the base of his leaking cock. “Not yet,” the werewolf demanded, panting into Stiles' ear. “Don't you dare.” He spread his fingers, twisting his wrist and finger-fucking the teen—carefully at first, then giving a few sharp thrusts that had Stiles crying out and clutching at the headboard with trembling arms that were barely supporting him.

Derek suddenly added a fourth finger, and Stiles' head dropped to the pillow. He was so close. The older man wanted to give him more. So much more. He let go of the teen's cock and reached up to release the restraints on his wrists, pulling the young man flush up against him. Stiles let his head fall back onto Derek's shoulder, one hand reaching up behind them and fingers threading into the short hairs at the nape of the older man's neck. His other hand settled over Derek's, which was wrapped around the younger man's dick again, nails biting into the werewolf's wrist. 

Derek nuzzled the teen's neck. “Still okay?”

Stiles shuddered, shaking and sweaty and beautiful. “Fuck yes,” he panted, chest heaving. “Derek, please. Pleasepleaseplease.” 

Derek smiled, lips pressed to his mate's shoulder. With a slow thrust of his fingers into the young man, he tugged on Stiles' cock, setting a steady rhythm that hastened as he teen began to cry out from the sensation. His muscles clamped around Derek's fingers, and the werewolf gave the teen's dick a few more quick pumps.

“Derek!” Stiles yelled as he came, and the older man nearly came himself just from the sound of his name.

If that didn't speak of the power this silly, gangly teenager had over the Alpha, then Derek didn't know what did. 

Derek pumped the teen through his orgasm, supporting his weight when he was spent, and lowering them both to the bed. He peppered the teen's face with kisses as he extracted his fingers, swallowing the noise of loss Stiles made as he covered those gorgeous lips with his own. 

“Can't move,” Stiles murmured, humming appreciatively as Derek sucked marks onto his neck. 

“That's too bad,” Derek said quietly, tongue laving a trail down the teen's chest and teasing a peaked nipple. “I was thinking we could try for the whole fist this time.” He looked up through his eyelashes at the teen, finding a quirked eyebrow and a grin of interest. 

Stiles swallowed and chuckled hoarsely, fingers stringing into Derek's hair. “Gimme five minutes.”

He only needed three.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles closed his eyes and let his mind float. He knew he should be paying attention. It was important, whatever was being said. He knew that. But he also knew that he was tired. Exhausted. _Weary_. Was that even a word that a teenager should be using? It felt like something much older than him. But he had been that way for a while now, like the events surrounding Azazel's _visit_ had yet to seep from his bones. 

“Stiles?”

The voice was distant, but he could hear the worry in it, knew he should pull himself away from this warm place and rejoin the real world. But he just wanted a few more moments of peace. 

“Stiles.”

A few more moments without worry. 

“Stiles.”

A few more moments without coldness. 

“Stiles!” 

A few more moments...

“ _Stiles_!”

The teen jolted awake with a gasp, gaze swiveling around the room wildly. Derek's loft. 

_Safe._

He looked at the few people surrounding him, faces scrunched in varying stages of concern—Derek, Lydia, Scott, Isaac. 

_Friends._

“Stiles?” Derek asked, reaching forward and cradling the teen's face in his hands. Stiles closed his eyes against the cool touch.

_Cool?_

Why was Derek _cool_?

Stiles shivered. 

“He's got a fever,” Derek murmured. “I'm gonna take him upstairs.”

Stiles reached up, wrapped his fingers around Derek's wrist, and dragged in a breath that took much more effort than it should. “No,” he said, though the words felt like glue on his tongue, dripping past his lips in a slur. “Home. I wanna...go home.”

“Okay,” Derek said immediately, and the relief that swept through Stiles' veins nearly made him cry. 

He grabbed hold of the older man as he was lifted, breathing through the wave of dizziness and focusing on what they had been doing before he'd drifted off. 

The wedding. They'd been talking about the wedding. It felt endless, all the planning they'd been doing. And every time Stiles thought they'd finally figured everything out, Lydia appeared like a goddess descended from the clouds, asking a hundred more rapid-fire questions that made Stiles' teeth ache. 

Derek seemed to take everything in stride, like he'd already been thinking about these sorts of things for years. Stiles had asked him why he seemed so at ease, why he had an answer for every question. 

Derek had shrugged. “I just think of you, standing next to me and saying 'I do.' Everything else falls into place.”

Stiles tried thinking that way, had laid in bed nearly every night picturing Derek standing beside him, smiling and happy as he said _I do_. But the scene around them was always...frightening. 

Chaos. Anger. Death.

Stiles could never stop it. As soon as those words left Derek's mouth, the world around them fell apart. Derek wasted away into nothing. Their wedding was a death sentence.

Lydia had once mentioned making one of their wedding colors red. Stiles had nearly thrown up. 

“Stiles.” Derek's voice pulled him up from the depths of his thoughts. “We're here.” The teen looked out the car window—when had they gotten in the car?—and stared at the Winchester residence.

_Home._

For a little while longer, at least. Where would they be living as a newly-married couple? The loft? It was already pretty crowded. They'd need someplace bigger. 

“Oh,” Stiles said absently, reaching for the door handle. It felt like their first date all over again—Derek dropping him off, kissing him until the porch light had fluttered on.

Derek's hand covered his own, stopping him from opening the door. “I'll get it. Stay put.”

Stiles barely had time to answer before Derek was out of the car and tugging the passenger side door open. He reached in, one arm snaking behind Stiles' back and the other under his knees, then he was being lifted out of the car.

“I can—” The teen meant to say _walk_ , but he couldn't find the word as his head spun. 

“It's okay, Stiles. I've got you.”

He let those words lull him back into the waves of darkness. 

0 o 0 o 0

Dean opened the front door, and his stomach flipped. Derek was standing on the porch, Stiles clutched in his arms. His son was shivering, pale, sweaty. “What happened?” he barked, stepping aside so the werewolf could enter. 

“He has a fever,” Derek said curtly, heading towards the living room and stopping short. “Who's that?” The words were a growl, and the Alpha's eyes flashed red as his nostrils flared. 

There was a girl about Stiles' age sitting on the Winchester's living room couch, flanked by Sam and Gabriel. The girl was Hispanic, her skin a dark caramel color and her long, black hair pulled back into a messy braid. Her irises were dark, blending in with the color of her pupils and giving her the illusion of large eyes—which were wide and scared and wary as they flashed yellow.

From Derek's reaction, Dean guessed he already knew she was a werewolf. The older man rubbed a hand down the length of his face and sighed, gesturing to the girl.

“This is Francesca.” He put his hands on his hips and looked at his son. “She's Stiles' sister.”


	2. Hold Onto Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've got you, Stiles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, yet again I fail in the department of updates. :/ 
> 
> I really am sorry, you guys. Work has been somewhat overwhelming, and I still don't have all my things unpacked in my new place, even though it's almost been a month. 
> 
> I very much appreciate your patience!! And I hope you all enjoy this chapter (however short it may be..I did want to make it longer but I figured getting something up was better than making you wait).

Derek's demeanor changed immediately, and he looked at Dean with surprised confusion. “ _What_?”

The muscles in Dean's jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, sounding less than pleased about the information himself. 

The werewolf shifted Stiles in his arms and huffed through his nostrils, giving the girl a good whiff. She smelled anxious under her perfume. What was that? Gardenias? And earth. And sun. She liked the outdoors. 

“You're sure?” he murmured, though the glance he shared with Gabe was more than enough. 

The archangel sighed and nodded, rubbing his face tiredly. “Yeah. We're sure.” He looked...older. He'd seemed to age significantly since their time in Purgatory. There were definitely more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and gray strands stood stark against the blond hair around his temples. 

The Winchester clan was finally beginning to look their age, showing their mortality. It was weird. And wrong. 

Thinking about a world without the Winchesters had never occurred to Derek before. He didn't like it. 

“Okay,” Derek said curtly, pushing the subject aside for a moment. “Can we do something about Stiles before we get into this?”

Gabriel nodded somewhat reluctantly, starting to stand but faltering as the girl put a gentle hand on his arm and stood instead. Derek tensed. 

“I can help,” she said, hands turned upwards as if to show she wasn't a threat. Her voice was soft, and a light accent lilted easily through the words. 

“No,” Derek growled automatically, flashing red eyes at her and feeling a mixture of satisfaction and guilt as she cowered under the gaze. 

“Derek,” Gabe admonished, and the Alpha felt his resolve begin to buckle. 

“No _thank you_ ,” he said half-heartedly, and the angel sighed. 

“She can help,” Gabriel insisted, looking almost ashamed of the words. Was he not able to help Stiles? Was this girl really here to help? How did they know she was who she said? What if she was one of Azazel's followers?

“ _Derek_ ,” Dean said firmly, and the Alpha tore his gaze away from the stranger, who was looking more and more uncomfortable. “Let her help.”

Derek frowned and made an unimpressed noise but made no move to stop the girl as she cautiously stepped towards them. She reached forward tentatively, her fingers long and nimble as she gently placed them against Stiles' temples.

The Alpha wasn't entirely sure what he expected to happen—glowing fingertips, weird tentacle-like tendrils. But as nothing seemed to happen and the quiet grew around them, his curiosity peaked. 

“What is she?” he growled, his entire being nearly vibrating with the urge to keep from pulling Stiles out of her reach. Francesca, for her merit, made no outward reaction to the comment. 

“She's one of Azazel's...prodigies,” Gabriel replied. 

Derek couldn't stop his eyes from going red at that. “Then what the hell is she doing here?”

Before his question could be answered, Stiles suddenly jerked in his arms, nearly tumbling to the floor. The Alpha's heart raged in his chest, beating against his ribcage painfully. 

“What did you do?” he demanded, stepping away from her just as Stiles settled in his arms again.

Francesca breathed deeply—in, then out—and gave Derek a small but reassuring smile that did nothing to calm his nerves. “He's fine.”

“How do you know?” Dean barked before Derek could calm his thoughts long enough to ask. 

As if to answer the question, Stiles stirred, eyes cracking open and gaze flitting dazedly. “Pop?” he asked, voice small and hoarse. 

“Hey, buddy,” Dean said gruffly, fingers twining into his son's hair. “You okay?”

Stiles closed his eyes and swallowed, eyebrows furrowing. “Feel like shit.”

Dean, Sam, and Gabriel chuckled in relief. 

“That's my boy.”

Derek grit his teeth. “I'm gonna take him upstairs.”

Dean leaned forward, placing a kiss into Stiles' hair before nodding and letting Derek take the teen upstairs. He waited until Stiles' bedroom door clicked closed before he turned to the young woman again. 

“So,” he said conversationally, hands resting on his hips, “why do you think my son is in danger?”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles opened his eyes as his bedroom door clicked shut, his gaze wandering until it landed on the Alpha. “Derek,” he breathed, raising a hand and grasping the man's shirt sleeve. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, setting the teen on the bed and sitting beside him. 

Stiles swallowed and breathed as deeply as his sore chest would allow, nodding and saying, “Yeah, I think so. What...What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Derek asked, and the teen huffed in frustration. If he could remember, he wouldn't be asking.

“I wasn't feeling well,” he said, the nerves behind his eyes throbbing with every heartbeat.

“You wanted to come home,” Derek said, brushing the sweaty bangs from the teen's forehead. 

Stiles felt the pit of his stomach twist in guilt. “ 'M sorry.”

The Alpha was quick to shake his head. “Don't be. _Never_ be sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles sighed and closed his eyes. “Stay.”

“Forever.”

The teen snorted. “Sap.”

Derek laughed and stretched out beside him, nose nuzzling behind Stiles' ear. “Only for you.”

Stiles could feel himself drifting away into sleep again. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay here with Derek. “Hold onto me,” he murmured, swallowing a sound of discontent when the other man wrapped his arms around him...and it just wasn't tight enough. “Dont' let go.”

“I've got you, Stiles,” Derek breathed into his ear, warm lips pressing to the teen's temple. 

“Don't let...”

Stiles fell into the darkness. 

0 o 0 o 0

_He dreamed of a little girl. She lived with her father and two older brothers in San Juan, Mexico. And she was happy._

_Even when a house fire claimed her mother's life when she was six-months-old, she still grew knowing she was loved and that her mother had been beautiful and caring. Her pack rebuilt, her father re-married. Life was simple and sweet._

_Until the man with yellow eyes appeared._

_She heard arguing from her room one night. Two voices—her father's and a low, rough tone._

_“You can't have her.”_

_“She is mine. A deal is a deal.”_

_Chaos and fear crept into their home, wrapping its slimy tendrils around her neck and squeezing until she could not scream, could not breathe._

_“Hold onto me!” her father yelled as she was dragged from their beautiful home, their beautiful life. “Don't let go!” His fingers curled around her wrist, pulling, pleading, begging. All she could do was cry as the yellow-eyed man wrapped his arms around her and took her away. “Don't let—”_

_The door slammed, their house burst into flame._

_Francesca watched her beautiful life burn to ash. And her will to fight burned with it._

_Until she dreamed of a boy who ran with wolves who would save them._

All _of them._

_But first...she would have to save_ him. 

0 o 0 o 0

_Stiles woke with a start, breathing hard as tears swam in his eyes. The emotions from the dream had felt so real, like they had been his own, and they still clung to him so fiercely. His heart gave a pained jolt at the thought of a lost family that didn't even belong to him._

_“It hurts less after time,” a soft, accented voice said into the dark quiet of his bedroom. A girl sat on the end of his bed, long black hair cascading down past her shoulder blades in a thick braid. Her eyes were dark but warm, and they seemed to shine despite the lack of light in the room._

_“But it never really goes away,” Stiles finished for her, confused by his own calm tone. He glanced at Derek, still asleep beside him. There was no way he wouldn't be up and growling at this intruder if he could be. So either this girl was manipulating him—_ both _of them—or this wasn't real. “I'm still dreaming,” the teen said carefully, his thoughts sluggish. “Who are you?”_

_“My name is Francesca,” the girl said, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “Call me Frannie.”_

_“Frannie,” Stiles repeated the name, and it felt comfortable on his tongue, like he'd known her for a very long time._

_And he sort of did, he realized. It was like she'd given him access to all her memories, like her mind was an open book that Stiles just couldn't put down. He knew all about her. That time she scraped her knee riding a bike for the first time. Her first best friend. The boy she liked from school...And life after her family was ripped away from her._

_Those memories hurt, and Stiles had to shake them away. “You helped me.”_

_“I did what I could,” Frannie said with a shrug. “You're a lot more powerful than I thought you'd be.”_

_Stiles' eyebrows furrowed. “I don't have any power. It...” He glanced down at the ring on his finger, a familiar feeling pressing at the back of his eyes—something trying to find its way out. He shook his head and tamped it down. He couldn't fall into that temptation. Not again. He'd already lost too much of himself...too much of everyone else._

_“Don't,” Frannie said, her tone suddenly harsh. “Don't do that, Stiles. Repressing your power...” She took his hand, cool fingers squeezing. “It's going to kill you.”_

_Stiles barely had time to open his mouth before the room began to spin, and everything faded. He felt like he was falling...._

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke again, sitting up in his bed and glancing around the room wildly. 

“Stiles?” someone asked sleepily beside him, and the teen turned to see Derek, eyes half open and hair sticking up in a wicked case of bed-head. Normally, that would be the kind of thing that would go straight to his libido—and, let's be honest, it still definitely did—but there was something more important that needed to be addressed. 

“Frannie,” Stiles breathed, untangling himself from the warm nest of bedding and Derek's limbs before jumping out of bed and scrambling for the door. 

“Stiles, wait!” Derek called, at his heels immediately as he flew out the door, across the hall, and down the staircase. His Pop and his uncles were sitting around the dining room table, a familiar girl sitting with them and looking extremely uncomfortable. Her demeanor changed, though, when Stiles started towards her. 

_Relief._

Stiles felt relieved, too. So much so that he rounded the table, ignoring his family's questions and pulling the girl into a hug. 

“Hey, Frannie,” he said, feeling strangely better as she wrapped him in her arms and held him close. 

“Hey, Stiles,” she said, her voice like freaking wind chimes. She sounded so much better in person.

“Stiles,” his Pop said, tone confused and tinted with some warning. “You know who this is?”

Stiles pulled back from the girl and breathed in the scent of flowers and earth. “She's my sister,” he said, smiling at her before turning a serious look on his Pop. “She's here to get back what you took away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all sooooooon!! (*fingers crossed*)


	3. I Live For Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dying sucked. And finding it to be a regular occurrence before his twentieth birthday really sucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...Has it been that long already?? Oh my goodness, I am so very sorry for this ridiculous hiatus!! I could have sworn I updated this fic just the other day...Well, I do hope you are still with me!! And that this chapter doesn't disappoint!! It is rather short, but I wanted to at least get something out to let you all know I haven't abandoned this series and that there IS a light at the end of the tunnel!!! This fic will be FINISHED, I promise!!! :)

There was a beat of strained silence before Dean took a steadying breath. “What do you mean what we 'took'? Stiles—”

“We'll have to get Deaton's help,” Stiles said to his newly-found sister, ignoring his father's words. “He might still be at the clinic.”

“It's almost ten o'clock,” Derek said skeptically, glancing out into the dark beyond the kitchen windows. 

“He works late,” Stiles explained, but the words were stiff, and he didn't look in his fiance's direction. “We should go. I'll text him on the way.” He turned, Francesca's hand firmly in his grasp, but Derek blocked his way, eyes glowing a deep red. 

“No,” he said, the word curt but packed with an assortment of emotion. 

Frannie shrank back some, but Stiles stood his ground, meeting the man's gaze. “You don't get to Alpha me, Derek. Not after this.” Derek faltered, eyes dimming. “Did you know?”

The older man's eyebrows drew together, and he looked around the room in question. 

No one had an answer for him.

“Did I know what?”

Stiles swallowed hard and shook his head. “Nothing. We need to go.”

0 o 0 o 0

It wasn't the first time Stiles had found himself dying. Actually, with all the attempts on his life within the past few years, the only emotion he could muster was frustration. Dying sucked. And finding it to be a regular occurrence before his twentieth birthday _really_ sucked.

It was getting pretty old. 

Stiles closed his eyes and let the hum of his jeep lull him into a dizzy, spiraling void. Derek was driving, and Francesca was in the back, hands folded as she stared out the window at the passing scenery. 

It hadn't taken much convincing for them to leave the house. One touch from Uncle Gabe, and everything had spilled out into the open. All the silent pleading the teen had done couldn't keep his angel uncle from telling the room what was going on. Uncle Sam had asked questions. Pop had quietly brooded. And after several minutes of arguing, Stiles had set off with Francesca, Derek in tow.

Stiles knew he should be concerned with how much he trusted her. She'd only been in the Winchester's home for a few short hours. And, technically, Stiles had only met her for the first time less than twenty minutes ago. But there was something about her presence that comforted him. 

“Your family is worried about you,” Frannie said quietly as Derek made a right turn. 

“They think you're in my head,” Stiles said absently, frowning as his phone chirped. It was a text from Scott, asking what he was up to. Stiles turned his phone to silent and put it away. No doubt his Pop had something to do with that. 

“I _am_ in your head,” Francesca countered with a small laugh.

Stiles smiled and looked over his shoulder. “Only because I let you.” He turned back to the front to find the clinic coming into view. “They're afraid that you're controlling me.”

“They have good reason. You've been controlled in the past.” The jeep came to a grinding stop. His brakes needed to be looked at. Stiles made a mental note and sighed. “Why don't you share their concerns?”

“Because I know how it feels,” Stiles said after a beat. “I remember the loss of control, being stuck in my own head, and forced to do something I...” He trailed off, looking back at his sister and seeing a sad understanding in her eyes. “This doesn't feel like that. I trust you.”

Francesca smiled, eyes shining as she leaned forward and took his hand. “I trust you, too. Just...keep in mind that your anger isn't because of them. You can't blame those you love just because you have nowhere else to direct your rage.”

Stiles squeezed the hand in his before turning and getting out of the jeep, letting Frannie out after him. 

Derek rounded the car, eyeing the young woman as she started towards the clinic and stopping in front of Stiles. He looked nervous. Anxious. Guilty. He looked like he wanted to reach out. 

Stiles let his shoulders drop and stepped forward into the Alpha's space, breathing in the warm scent and pressing his face into the crook of Derek's neck. 

Derek sighed and wrapped his arms around him. “I'm sorry,” he murmured into the teen's hair.

Stiles shook his head. “I should be apologizing.”

“You should be _resting_ ,” Derek said, pulling back slightly so that he could look the younger man in the eye. “You're tired.”

“I'm dying,” Stiles pointed out matter-of-factly.

Derek closed his eyes. “ _Please_ don't say that.”

“I'm not saying it to upset you,” Stiles huffed, fingers twisting into the fabric of his fiance's jacket. “I just mean...Rest isn't what's going to fix this. We need to break whatever bond is suppressing my powers, or I'm not going to be the only one in danger.”

Derek swallowed. “I don't like thinking of you in danger.”

Stiles smirked. “Well, then you must not like thinking of me. Because I _live_ for danger.”

The Alpha rolled his eyes, turning so that they were starting towards the building, arm slung around the teen's waist. “By the way, I didn't know you speak Spanish.”

Stiles frowned, fingers idly playing with the zipper on the older man's jacket. “I don't.”

Derek stopped, eyebrows furrowing as he turned back to him. “Stiles, you were speaking Spanish with Francesca the entire way here.”

Stiles opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, not quite sure what to say. “Uh...Let's just...go inside, huh? See what Deaton has to say.”

Derek pursed his lips, nodding and tightening his hold before, once again, heading towards the clinic and the young woman waiting patiently by the door as she pretended not to hear their conversation. 

0 o 0 o 0

As it turned out, Deaton had quite a bit to say about the matter. Stiles had never seen the man so angry. And Derek seemed to be getting the brunt of it. 

“I told you this spell would have consequences. We don't fully understand Stiles' power, and binding something like that puts _everyone_ in danger. _Stiles_ especially.”

Derek's entire body went numb. “So it's true,” he said, tone absent. “What we did—what _I_ did—is killing him.”

Deaton frowned as he thought. “Not...entirely. Stiles' powers are a part of him. They're woven into the fabric of his very being. That's why there is no way to get rid of them. To do so would be to destroy a part of Stiles, and he wouldn't survive something like that.” The veterinarian gave Stiles a once over. “Binding is still very dangerous...You feel it, don't you?”

Derek and Francesca turned their attention to Stiles, who squirmed uncomfortably.

“I feel... _different_ , but—” 

“Stiles,” Deaton said gently, and it was like a dam breaking. 

“It feels _wrong_ ,” he blurted, hands beginning to shake. “Like I can't breathe. Like I'm not... _me_.”

There were hands on his shoulders, and the young man turned to find Derek. His eyes were full of regret and grief.

“Then we need to undo this,” he said firmly.

Stiles swallowed, grabbing Derek's jacket and holding on for dear life. “What happens if I turn out wrong again?” He looked to Deaton. “If I turn into what Azazel made me?”

“You've proven time and again that you are so much more than that,” Deaton said, confidence and sincerity lacing his tone. “You broke through Azazel's hold in the end because you knew that wasn't who you are.”

The teen closed his eyes and winced. “Not soon enough.”

“Stiles, I understand this is difficult,” Deaton sighed, leaning onto his desk and looking at the young man seriously, “but if we don't lift the binding soon, there could be permanent damage.”

“What kind of damage?” Stiles asked hesitantly, holding his breath as the former emissary took a moment to gather his thoughts. 

“At best, you could lose memories, thought process, the ability to remember who you are—who _we_ are.”

Stiles' stomach clenched. “And worst?”

Deaton pursed his lips. “You could fall into a vegetative state. You wouldn't be you anymore.”

The teen huffed in disbelief, swallowing hard and turning wide eyes on Derek. “How is this happening?” he asked, though the question wasn't directed at anyone in particular. “How is this even real?”

“Stiles—” Derek said.

Stiles shook his head and closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath and then leveling Deaton with a determined look. “What do we do?”

Deaton started towards his bookshelf. “It will take some time. I need to find the spell to break the hold and gather ingredients.” He glanced towards the three in the room. “I'll let you know when I have what I need.”

Reluctantly, the three left the small office, exiting the clinic and starting towards Stile's jeep.

There was nothing they could do but wait with what little borrowed time they had.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles tensed as Derek took a breath to speak. They were back at the Winchester's in the teen's bed. Stiles curled into Derek's warm side and shook his head. 

“Please don't,” he whispered before Derek could say anything, burying his face into the crook of the werewolf's neck. “Not now.”

Derek swallowed and nodded, holding his fiance tighter. “Okay.”

Stiles closed his eyes and prayed for dreamless sleep.

0 o 0 o 0

There were no dreams. But he woke in anger. He was so fucking tired of being angry. 

Stiles hid his face in Derek's chest, tried to quell the shaking in his limbs as he cried. Derek woke and whispered guilty apologies into his skin, kissed his face and his neck. 

Stiles shook harder. 

He hated this feeling. 

0 o 0 o 0

The breakfast table was silent.

Well, that would make sense. Inanimate objects weren't usually the chatty type. 

But the way Stiles' Pop was glaring at his food, you would think his breakfast had done some great disservice. Stiles glanced questioningly at his Uncle Gabe, who gave him a subtle nod and a wink before grabbing Uncle Sammy's shirt sleeve and disappearing with the flutter of wings. The newspaper that the latter had been reading fell to the table, and his Pop grabbed the Sports section without thought, completely unfazed by the sudden lack of company.

“Pop...”

“Oh, so you're talking to me now?” the hunter said gruffly, taking a heated bite of his toast and snapping the newspaper so that it stood rigid in his hand. “I thought for sure we'd fallen from your good graces.”

Stiles sighed and dropped his fork on the table, sitting back in his chair and wringing his hands anxiously. “I'm sorry.” He glanced at the older man for a reaction. “Pop, I am, really. I haven't felt...myself lately.”

Dean eyed him critically. “ 'Not yourself' _how_ , exactly?”

Stiles shook his head. “Not like that. I promise. Just...angry. About everything.” He looked at his father and let his exhaustion slip through. He was so tired of hiding himself. “And there's no one to be angry at. _Really_ angry at. And I know I've been taking it out on you. And Derek.”

“And your uncles. And your friends,” his Pop continued, sipping his coffee. One corner of his mouth twitched when the teen rolled his eyes.

“I've been a dick.” The older man raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I've been a _bag_ of dicks.” Stiles' shoulders slumped. “And I'm sorry.”

Dean sighed and set the newspaper down, gesturing Stiles towards him. “C'mere.”

Stiles stood and rounded the table, letting his father cocoon him in warmth and safety and love.

The shivers that had wracked him all night melted from his limbs, and he choked in relief. “Thanks,” he croaked, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

“Kid, the Winchesters have a history of keeping things to themselves,” his Pop explained, shaking his head as memories of pure stubbornness came to mind. “A lot of shit could have been solved a helluva lot quicker if we'd just, you know...”

“Had a chick-flick moment?” Stiles suggested, smiling when his Pop chuckled.

Dean loosened his hold on his son and let him sit in the chair beside him. “I know a lot is going on,” he said, squeezing the young man's arm, “but we gotta stick together on this one.” He made sure Stiles was looking him in the eye. “No more secrets.”

Stiles nodded in relief. “No more secrets.”

0 o 0 o 0

“You're going to wear a hole in the floor,” Frannie warned as she watched Stiles turn and pace the loft for the umpteenth time. 

Stiles didn't care. He'd wear a hole all the way to the basement, if he had to. Because pacing was the only thing keeping his anxiety levels in check right now. His friends were about to meet his sister for the very first time—a sister who happened to be an unfamiliar werewolf and who had shown up out of the blue claiming Stiles was in danger. 

The pack had had their fair share of betrayals in the past, so convincing them that Francesca was legitimately there to help was going to take a little more than just Stiles' word. The teen knew he couldn't be angry with them for being skeptical. Hell, he'd probably be the same way.

_Actions speak louder than words._

Francesca would have to prove herself. And she was more than willing. Stiles was more afraid that she would end up hurt—or worse—because of it.

Derek walked into the living room from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He was doing dishes. _Dishes_ , for Christ's sake. How could he be doing something as mundane as house chores when everything could fall apart so quickly?

“It helps him calm down,” Derek said instead of trying to stop him, which eased some of the tightness in his chest. The only thing worse than pacing and worrying was _sitting still_ and worrying. 

In the hallway, the elevator pinged and the doors slid open, the pack's familiar banter wafting down the corridor. It both settled Stiles' nerves and made his heart flutter. He stopped his pacing and let a sharp stream of air whoosh past his lips. 

Francesca stood, and for a moment Stiles panicked, thinking she had lost her nerve and planned to bolt. But she merely moved to Stiles' side, taking his hand and squeezing it. 

“Here we go,” she whispered, a smile on her face as the loft door slid open.


	4. Home Is Where the Blood Is.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brother...Come home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow! Look at you! You just look darn wonderful, don't you? Thank you so much for being here and for looking so beautiful and for, you know, just being around. I really do appreciate you! Like, a lot!
> 
> I hope your day is just splendid! You deserve it! :D

Scott took one whiff of Derek's loft and started growling. He couldn't help it. He smelled an unfamiliar wolf in their territory. What's more, he smelled an unfamiliar wolf in a place they essentially called _home_. Every instinct in his body was telling him to _protect_ what was theirs. And behind him, Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and Jackson seemed to be following suit. 

“Guys,” Stiles said carefully, his hand squeezing the stranger's just a bit—and somehow that was disconcerting, seeing their Alpha's mate so close to some stranger. “It's okay. Really, nothing to freak out about...Right, Derek?”

The teen looked to the Alpha desperately, motioning towards the irate group in an expectant manner. 

_Fix this!_

Derek huffed and tossed the dish towel in his hands back into the kitchen, walking towards Francesca with purpose. About a foot from the young woman, he stopped, holding his arms open and giving her a pointed look. She glanced between the man and Stiles twice before gingerly releasing her brother's hand and stepping into Derek's embrace. 

It looked...awkward.

Derek pursed his lips and sighed heavily as he scented her, the young woman standing as still as possible and giving Stiles a wide-eyed, anxious look. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing—it shouldn't be funny. His mate was scenting his sister so that his friends wouldn't tear her limb from limb....

But the faces they were making....

Was it inappropriate to snap a picture?

Francesca narrowed her eyes. _Don't. Even. Think about it._

Stiles coughed and looked away to hide a smile. It didn't quite work. 

Erica saw the aborted gesture and grinned widely. “Fucking adorable.” 

Derek growled. Francesca tensed. 

And Isaac laughed.

Which led to Erica laughing. 

Which made Boyd smirk. 

Which made Allison giggle.

Which made Scott smile tentatively. 

Which made Jackson roll his eyes. 

Which made Lydia sigh and step forward to pull the poor girl out of Derek's clutches. 

“My name's Lydia,” she introduced herself, sitting on the couch and tugging Francesca down to do the same.

“Frannie,” the young woman said with a pinched but relieved smile. 

The redhead turned to Stiles and raised an eyebrow. “Am I finding Frannie a place in the wedding?” she asked, tone somehow curt and exasperated simultaneously. 

“Um,” Stiles hesitated, glancing at Francesca and shrugging. “We...haven't really talked about the wedding.”

“Shocker,” Lydia said.

A buzzer sounded, and Stiles immediately started towards the door. “Pizza! That's the pizza. Don't want to keep everyone hungry.”

“How about the guests at your wedding?” Lydia called after him. “Because you still haven't decided on appetizers. Or entrees. Literally all you've given me is a cake flavor.”

“Dude,” Scott whined as Stiles' fingers gripped the door handle, “you picked a cake flavor?”

“We haven't tasted any flavors yet, Scott,” Derek consoled, obviously aware of where the teen was going with the thought. 

“Still know what I want!” Stiles called back, sliding the door open and reaching for his wallet. Later, he would tell himself that he should have been expecting the knife that seemingly came out of nowhere. But, really, who would suspect being stabbed in the chest while waiting for pizza?

It felt like a dull pinch at first. Stiles didn't even register what was happening until the stranger pulled the weapon out of him and bared his teeth with a frightening grin. 

“Long live the _Heir of Hell_.”

0 o 0 o 0

There was a whirlwind of movement as Stiles began to fall. Arms wrapped around him and gently brought him to the floor. Fingers ripped into his shirt to expose the wound (another favorite shirt gone). Several people rushed past him into the hall, snarling and clawing at the person, who hadn't even bothered to run. 

Stiles took a breath, still unable to feel any pain just yet but definitely feeling the tightness in his lungs, tasting the bitter copper on the back of his tongue. 

“Did that dude just fuckin' _Lion King_ me?” he asked, coughing as little bubbles crawled up his throat. 

“Stiles, don't talk,” Derek said desperately from above him. He must have been the one to catch him. The teen was surprised he wasn't the first to rip the stranger's head off his shoulders. “Stop!” The order was absolute, and his eyes glowed red with the simple word. Out in the hall, all movement stopped, and several pairs of yellow, glowing eyes turned to them. 

“We need answers,” Derek explained through gritted teeth, as if he wanted to be the one out there ripping the guy to shreds. He looked down at Stiles in worry. “Is it working?”

_Is what working?_

Stiles shifted his gaze to see Francesca as his side, hands pressed firmly over the wound in his chest. Black tendrils snaked up her arms—that explained the lack of pain—and she had a look of deep concentration on her face. 

“Not fast enough,” she grunted. “We need Gabriel.”

The name was barely out of her mouth before the Archangel was leaning into Stiles' view. 

“Hey, Kiddo,” he said gently, replacing Francesca's hands with one of his own. “Can't seem to keep yourself out of trouble, can you?”

Stiles felt another dull pinch, and then blessed air rushed past un-bloodied teeth and into un-punctured lungs. “Seems to find me no matter what,” he replied, sitting up with Derek's help and staring down at the remains of his shirt. “Can't seem to keep a T-Shirt in once piece, either.”

“I'll grab you one from upstairs,” Derek offered, helping him stand and making sure he could stay steady on his feet before climbing the stairs and out of sight. 

Stiles looked down at his chest and ran his fingers over the smooth skin where a knife had been only moments before. 

“You feelin' okay?” Uncle Gabe asked, and Stiles looked up into the angel's tired face. 

“Are you?” he asked instead of answering. His uncle smirked and looked out into the hallway. 

“Is this the guy I'm taking back to your Pop?”

Stiles winced. Whoever this guy was, he did not envy him once Dean Winchester got his hands on him. The teen looked past Gabe at the stranger in his friends' claws. His eyebrows rose as he realized how young he was. Around Stiles' age, actually....

 _Shit._

Stiles swallowed and stepped forward, ignoring the noises of warning from the others. “Who sent you?” he asked, glad when his voice didn't break.

The stranger laughed, smirking with bloody teeth and saying, “You know who sent me. _Brother_.”

Stiles' stomach dropped out, and he felt his hands begin to shake as he turned back into the apartment. “Take him,” he demanded, the words barely above a whisper.

There was a swift breeze and the flutter of wings, and Stiles knew they were gone. He took the shirt that Derek offered him, ignoring the solemn look on his mate's face, and changed into it quickly. 

The sound of the elevator dinging was almost deafening in the silence, and the delivery girl's cheerful, “Hey! You guys order some pizza?” made Stiles want to throw up. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles wanted so badly to take Derek up on his offer to stay the night at the loft—every fiber of his being was screaming that it was the right choice. But he also knew that after a night like tonight, he wouldn't be the only one having issues coping with what was happening. 

Stiles needed to go home. 

Derek offered Francesca a room—how many damn rooms were in that loft, for God's sake?—and Stiles a ride back to the Winchester household. 

“You're sure?” the older man asked for possibly the hundredth time as he parked in the driveway. “I don't know if you should—” 

“Derek,” Stiles said, voice quiet but tone firm as he unbuckled his seat belt and turned to face his mate, “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Derek sighed. “Okay,” he agreed reluctantly, leaning in to give Stiles a long, _change-your-mind-please-please-change-your-mind_ kiss. “We'll be patrolling the area. Call if you need anything.”

“Anything?” Stiles asked with a wicked smile and a wiggle of his eyebrows. 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Nearly killed an hour ago and still thinking about sex.”

“It's how I cope,” Stiles protested half-heartedly, opening the passenger door and stepping out. He turned and leaned down so he could see Derek before saying, “I love you.”

Derek smiled. “I love you, too.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles was barely through the front door before his father had him in a bear hug. 

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly, and Stiles nodded, wrapping his arms around his Pop as tears pricked at the backs of his eyes. Dean pulled away and held him at arm's length, making sure he could see him. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Stiles rasped, clearing his throat and nodding again. “I'm fine, Pop. Swear.”

The look of worry on the man's face didn't waver. “Let's get you to bed.”

Stiles was tugged into similar hugs by his uncles before Dean led him upstairs and waited in the hall while Stiles changed into pyjamas, used the bathroom, and brushed his teeth. Barely awake as his Pop steered him down the hall, he asked, “Where'd Uncle Gabe take that kid?”

_My brother._

“Don't worry about that,” Dean said quietly, passing Stiles' room and heading straight for his own. “Just try and get some sleep.”

Stiles yawned and climbed into his parents' bed, his head floating as covers were pulled over him and a kiss was pressed into his hair. 

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

Darkness swooped in and took hold before he could reply. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke, and the world swayed. He was standing at the top of the stairs, toes hanging over the edge as voices from the kitchen wafted up to him. 

“He's not talking,” his Pop said, exhaustion in his tone. 

“I think you should let Gabe try again,” Uncle Sammy suggested. “Take a break, Dean.”

“Gabe already had his shot. His mojo didn't work—there's probably some sort of sigil blocking him. There's only one way we're gonna get through to this guy.”

“Dean, _listen_ to yourself. This isn't some _guy_. He's a _kid_. A scared, brainwashed kid, barely Stiles' age. You can't keep going like this.”

The argument continued, and Stiles suddenly found himself staring down into the basement. He knew he shouldn't, but a small voice in the back of his head told him that this was something only he could do. His feet made no sound on the stairs, the wood did not creak as he walked, the concrete did not feel cold on his skin. 

There was blood—the tangy scent of it in the air, the bright splash of it on the floor and walls. The boy was chained to a chair in the center of the room, chin resting against his chest. Stiles walked like a zombie, grabbing a stool from a nearby worktable, which had several well-used and red-stained instruments on it, and setting it down in front of the other teen. 

The moment Stiles sat, the boy lifted his head, bright eyes focusing on him. 

“Hello, Brother,” he said conversationally, unfazed by the blood dripping into his left eye. “Did you come to kill me?”

Stiles stared. His head was humming with thoughts. “I can't use my powers,” he admitted absently. 

The other teen laughed. “Liar,” he accused. “And you don't need powers to kill me, stupid. There's a table full of weapons right over there.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Still a few clean ones left, I think. Your dad's saving the best for last.”

“Pop,” Stiles corrected, though the emotion that was supposed to be behind the word was distressingly absent. “He's my Pop. My Dad is dead.”

“Right,” the boy said with a nod. “Because you killed him.”

“Yes,” Stiles said bluntly, standing from his chair and heading to the table with the unused instruments on it. He glanced over them briefly before choosing one and sitting back down. “My uncle thinks you can be reasoned with. That you've been brainwashed.”

The other teen laughed, the noise high and throaty. “Funny. I thought the same about you.” He glanced Stiles up and down briefly, coughing and spitting onto the floor. “These hunters have you well-trained. You don't even know what you can do.”

“I told you. I gave up my powers. They're gone,” Stiles insisted.

“And I know you're lying. Whether _you_ know it is another matter entirely.”

Stiles grit his teeth. “Why are you here?”

“To see if you're ready.”

“To lead the army?”

“To lead _hell_ ,” the boy said with an incredulous huff. “Father had much bigger plans for you than baby-sitting a bunch of fucking children. Stiles—” He licked blood from his lips and smiled a _redred_ smile. “—you are meant for so much more than this. All these people you surround yourself with, they mean _nothing_. And they _will be_ nothing when you take your rightful place.” The boy breathed, and the noise was wet and broken. “Brother...come home.”

Stiles sat for a long moment in silence, listening to the wet squish of every breath. “What's your name?” he finally asked. 

The boy licked his lips again and offered a shaky smile that made him look so _youngyoungyoung_. “Andrew.”

Stiles nodded. “Andrew,” he repeated, and the boy's smile widened. The long, curved blade in Stiles' hand lurched forward, lodging deep into Andrew's chest in the same spot that the young Winchester had been stabbed earlier that night. 

Leaning forward into the shocked face of his brother, Stiles inhaled the stench of sulfur and death. “I am home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...Oh boy...Goodness me...Well...
> 
> I guess that happened. :/


	5. Don't Let Go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stiles, please don't let go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh. Do you even write? 
> 
> No. No, apparently I do not. At least not on any kind of schedule. :/ Sorry, guys, I'm trying my best here. My work schedule has me so exhausted, I feel like all I ever do when I'm home is sleep. 
> 
> But you do look really lovely today, and I'm so happy you stopped by! I hope you enjoy this small segment that might POSSIBLY be one of the last few chapters. I only have maybe two or three more chapters in mind, but you never know, I guess. NOT EVEN I, THE ALL-KNOWING AUTHOR, KNOW WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT!!!!!
> 
> Dun-Dun-Dunnnnnnn!!!!!

Stiles saw blood, and his lungs seized. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, holding his hands away from him like they were the culprits that had talked him into this mess. He looked up, and the lifeless eyes of his brother stared back at him. 

“Fuck!” he hissed, backing away as quickly as he could. His bare feet slid in the cooling pool of blood on the floor, and he caught himself in time to keep from crying out. Voices sounded at the top of the basement stairs, and his heart thundered in his chest. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he moaned, inches from running his fingers through his hair before he remembered the state of his hands. 

The voices went quiet; no doubt his Pop and Uncle Sammy had discovered the basement door ajar. 

There was no hiding this—not from hunters. And certainly not from Winchesters. Stiles had lived a life with a severe lack of privacy, to be sure.

Footsteps on the stairs, cautious and calculated. Stiles couldn't hear himself breathing over the pounding in his ears. Everything was sluggish, muted, like he was under water. Drowning. Dying. 

_Not here. Not here._

He saw his Pop appear at the bottom of the stairs first, gun drawn. He lowered the weapon when he saw Stiles, first a look of confusion morphing from the dangerous mask of concentration on his face, then shifting into surprise...then horror as he looked back and forth between Stiles—his son—and the dead teenager. 

Stiles, shaking and hyperventilating and covered in blood, stood frozen, staring back at his father in fear. “Pop?” he managed past the bile starting to rise in his throat. 

His Pop looked around the room again warily. “Stiles...Just...don't move, okay? I'm gonna come to you. Don't move.” 

The teen nodded shakily, breathing heavy and uneven. “ 'Kay.”

His Pop slowly stepped towards him, glancing around like there was some sort of danger looming over them. Stiles' curiosity got the better of him, and he started to turn his head. 

“Stiles!” his father said sharply, and the teen turned wide eyes on him—not before he caught a glint of something metallic hanging in the air at eye level. “Eyes right here, buddy, okay? You just keep looking at me.” He took another wary step. “Stay still.”

The pit of Stiles' stomach churned. Now he was definitely on full-fucking-alert. “What—” 

“It's okay,” his Pop reassured, offering a tight smile and a curt nod before taking a couple more careful steps. 

His next movements were almost too fast for Stiles to track. The teen felt a tug on his arm, then a sharp pain at his right shoulder, before he was suddenly wrapped in a warm hug. Loud clattering sounded around him, and he breathed in the scent of his father's cologne for several moments before lifting his head and looking around them. 

Knives. Bonesaws. Scalpels. A blow torch. Every shape and size of the torturous instruments that his Pop owned were scattered on the floor at their feet. A small cut was on his shoulder, and it throbbed dully.

“Did I—” he started, but the words were choked off as he felt himself start to get sick. He leaned away and emptied his stomach onto the floor, his Pop rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

“Dean?” Uncle Sammy asked quietly from beside them, and Stiles burrowed his face further into his father's shirt. 

“Take him upstairs.” His Pop's deep voice reverberated through his trembling limbs, and he held tighter to the man. “Stiles? Hey, kid, I'm gonna let Uncle Sammy take you, okay? I'm gonna take care of a few things, and then I'll be right up. I promise.”

Stiles kept his eyes shut as he heard Uncle Sammy tell him he was going to wrap his arms around him, sucking in a breath as the scent of his Pop's cologne was replaced by the smell of his uncle's shampoo. He always bought the expensive stuff. 

Stiles focused on Uncle Sammy's voice as he told him when to step up each stair and held his breath to keep the metallic scent from settling on the back of his tongue. 

He didn't look back. 

0 o 0 o 0

Derek ran. 

He could hear Stiles' heartbeat from several blocks away, and the panicked flutter of it only made him run faster. 

_Mate-Mate-Mate._

He burst through the front door. The teen sat on the living room couch beside Sam, Gabriel in the arm chair across from them. Stiles looked shaken, his face blank and his eyes wide with shock. He smelled like fear and blood, and when Derek leaned down in front of him, Stiles instinctively pressed himself forward into him like the world was collapsing—and, _fuck_ , if Derek could just hold him tight enough, then everything wouldn't be so bad. 

They could crumble together. 

“It's okay,” Derek murmured against the shell of Stiles' ear, and the teen's trembling started to wane. 

“Hold on,” Stiles begged, voice hoarse and fingers gripping Derek's shirt tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Don't let go.”

“I'm here, Stiles,” Derek promised, arms tightening as the teen's breathing began to shudder. “I've got you.”

“Don't let go. Don't let go. Don't let go.” Stiles repeated the mantra over and over between labored breaths, and Derek shared a concerned look with Sam before carefully leaning back. His stomach dropped as Stiles' black eyes locked on him. 

“Don't let go,” the teen continued to beg. “Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek saw Gabriel start to rise from his chair, his face set in a grim determination. The angel was most likely going to make Stiles sleep, put him in his room with a demon ward, strap him to the bed. It was the only way they knew how to deal with something like this. 

It was the only way...

“No,” Derek said quietly, holding up a hand to stop Gabriel from approaching. 

Dean walked into the living room from the hallway, using a stained rag to wipe what looked a hell of a lot like blood from his hands. “Derek,” he said sharply. “Let him.”

“No,” Derek protested again. “Just...wait.”

They'd been doing this wrong, treating Stiles like an enemy, like a demon, walking on eggshells in case the _evil_ inside him suddenly surfaced. 

Derek could see now. They'd been wrong. They'd been _so-so-so_ wrong. 

Stiles was not a demon. He had something inside him. Something that wasn't easy to control. Something he needed to _anchor_. He wasn't asking them to _hold him_. He was telling _himself_ to _hold on_. 

_Hold on._

_Don't let go._

“Stiles?” he asked firmly, relieved that his voice didn't fail him. The teen's mantra faltered, and Stiles' dark eyes centered on him, hollow and cold and still Stiles.

_Still_ Stiles. 

Derek cupped the young man's face and swallowed. “Stiles, hold on,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. “Don't let go.”

Stiles shifted, blinked. 

“Don't let go,” Derek begged, words becoming desperate. “Stiles, _please_ don't let go. I'm here. Hold on.”

The teen blinked again. And again. And—

Then the black was gone. 

0 o 0 o 0

_Stiles, hold on._

Stiles heard the words, and something in him stirred. 

Cracked. 

_Don't let go._

And cracked. 

_Don't let go._

And cracked. 

_Stiles, please don't let go._

He felt the shroud around his mind begin to lift, the pain of being trapped ebb.

_I'm here._

Derek. 

_Hold on._

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on. 

The shroud broke. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sucked in air like he'd been drowning. Like he hadn't breathed for so long. 

And there was no pain behind it. The vice on his chest was gone. The feeling turning his insides was absent. 

He was free. 

“Stiles?”

His gaze swiveled, and his head buzzed with dizziness, but Derek's eyes came into focus first, and relief flooded him, filled the cold corners of his whole body and sent shivers down his spine. 

“Derek,” he breathed. 

_Breathed._

Stiles gripped the man's forearms and took in the room a little at a time. 

The living room they'd had pack and family meetings in. The couch he'd spilled popcorn on and fallen asleep on and made out with Derek on. The carpet he'd stretched out on to study when he was still in school and the pack had playfully wrestled on to settle what movie they would watch. The window he'd watched from the first time Derek had met his parents and now let in the first dulled rays of morning light. 

So bright. So bright. 

His Uncle Sammy, who was smart and supportive and always ready to fight for his family. 

His Uncle Gabe, who was funny and powerful and had given up so much to be with the man and the people he loved.

His Pop, who was stern and loving and would never give up hope no matter how bleak their future looked. 

And Derek. Derek who looked scared and determined and hopeful despite everything. _Everything._

Stiles was going to marry this man. 

“How did you do that?” he asked, breathless and exhausted and...so, so happy. Happier than he could remember being for a long while—since before all this shit started, when he was just a stupid kid who wanted his dads to meet his boyfriend. 

“Do what?” Derek asked, brushing hair from Stiles' sweaty forehead. 

The teen opened and closed his mouth a couple times, unable to find the words he needed. 

“The binding,” Uncle Gabe said for him. “It's broken.”

“How?” his Pop asked, caution lacing his tone. 

Gabriel shrugged. “True love?” he offered with a cheesy smile. 

Derek rubbed a thumb across Stiles' cheek. “An anchor.” He looked to each of the other men in turn. “He needed an anchor. Like werewolves do to keep from turning on the full moon.”

“What anchor?” Uncle Sammy asked curiously, ignoring Gabe's mouthed _'True love.'_

Stiles smiled and breathed and laughed, the sound surprising everyone. “Derek. It's always been Derek.”

“Told you,” Uncle Gabe sing-songed to no one in particular. 

Stiles let himself have a moment longer in the quiet happiness he'd found before remembering...remembering...

A sharp pang of guilt dropped the smile from his face, and he winced and gasped. “I...killed him.” Derek tried to shush him, but he shook his head. “I killed that kid...Andrew.”

His Pop gripped the towel in his hands just a bit tighter and shifted on his feet. “How do you know his name was Andrew?”

Stiles steadied his breathing, focused on Derek's hands, which were rubbing up and down his arms soothingly. “I asked him.”

“He talked to you?” Uncle Sammy asked, glancing towards Dean when the teen nodded. “What did he say?”

“He said he was here to see if I was ready.” Stiles shared a hesitant look with Derek. “Last night, when he stabbed me, he called me the 'Heir of Hell.' And he told me that Azazel had bigger plans for me than just leading an army.”

“Like what?” his Pop asked incredulously. “Being the King of Hell?”

“Not all it's cracked up to be, I assure you,” a familiar voice said from the hallway, and Crowley stepped into the room. “Hello, kids. Nice to see you again.” His gaze centered on Derek. “Is this the groom-to-be? Don't believe we've had the pleasure.”

“And you won't,” Dean said sternly. “What do you want?”

There was a tense moment where Crowley looked affronted at the aborted introduction, but it didn't last long. The demon straightened his jacket and placed his hands in his pockets. “The kid is right. Azazel was planning something much bigger for Stiles than some kiddie army. Things down in Hell are all a-buzz for the heir's return.” Crowley gestured to Stiles, and the hair on the back of the teen's neck stood on end. “Your boy is all anyone's talking about these days.”

“Why?” Derek demanded, unfazed by the presence of the demon. Just another day at the Winchester's right? 

The demon sighed and glanced Stiles up and down skeptically, as if he couldn't quite believe his next words. “He has the power to release all the demons from Hell.”

Dean shook his head. “We closed the gates of Hell. There's no way.”

“I didn't say anything about 'gates,' did I?” Crowley argued, looking the room over. “Stiles can remove the barrier between Hell and Earth.” He frowned at a particular photograph on the wall and returned his attention to the others. “You don't need gates if there's no wall.”

Silence blanketed the room before Stiles decided to speak. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Really?” the demon asked, a quirk to his lips as his gaze shifted to Derek. “Not for anyone?”

Stiles' grip on Derek tightened, and he grit his teeth. “ _Don't_.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Crowley said unconvincingly. “But they will. They'll do anything they can to get you to play nice. So whatever you lot are planning—” He glanced around the room again. “—you'd better be ready. Because they're coming.”

A gust of air, and the demon was gone. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles folded his hands together and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. They were at Derek's loft again. _All_ of them. The pack. The Winchesters. Deaton and Morrell. Chris and Peter. And they were all looking at one person. 

Stiles took a breath. “Francesca,” he said, and the girl sat up a little straighter, “how big is Azazel's army?”

“A little more than a hundred,” the young woman answered. 

“That's all?” Peter huffed, crossing his arms. “We can handle a hundred brats.”

“A hundred brats with powers like theirs,” Derek reminded them, gesturing to Stiles and Francesca. “Brats that could crush your skull before you even laid a hand on them.”

Stiles pursed his lips and continued. “Are there any others like you? Others who don't want to be part of the army?”

Francesca nodded. “A few...Not enough to make a difference in their numbers. But I can send word, have them defect from the army before it comes.”

“Good. Do it as soon as you can,” Stiles said, turning to the others and, suddenly, feeling every bit his nineteen years. “I know...you don't have much reason to trust me. I've been a little unreliable lately.” A hand slipped into his, and he looked up to find Derek's steady gaze on him, filled with so much love and belief that Stiles nearly forgot every doubt in his mind. 

“We're going to beat this,” Derek said, squeezing the hand in his. “I will follow you, Stiles. Always.”

The teen looked around at the people he considered family, blood-related or not, and the nods of solidarity confirming Derek's words made his chest swell with hope. 

They would beat this. 

Together. 

“Okay,” he said, swallowing and taking a breath. “Here's the plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang, Daniel...Who knew it was that simple, finding an anchor and all????? Jeez.....  
> You think they would have thought of that EARLIER.......Hindsight...........
> 
> I love you guys sooooo much!!! Thank you for sticking with me!!! We're nearing the end!!!  
> I CAN FEEL IT!!!!
> 
> For now, listen to "Mental Illness" by Goodbye Neverland and be sad with me. :( :( :(


	6. Someone's Here..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm scared. I'm scared if I say it out loud, it'll come true. I can't lose him. Not after everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello there! So wonderful to see you!! Look at you, looking all dashing and beautiful today!!! I'm very sorry this update is so, so, so late..What with work and the holidays, my schedule as been all over the place, and I've barely had any time for myself. But here we are!!! Yay!!
> 
> So the high last week was negative three degrees (the low around negative sixteen)...I was so certain my poor car wouldn't survive, but it DID. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, we made it through (what we hope was) the worst of the winter weather. We'll see what's to come, I suppose...
> 
> You should probably make a cup of hot chocolate, just because. You deserve it! :3

Stiles dug his fingernails into Derek's shoulders as the man moved inside him, gasping as he slowly slid out and then thrust back in with a sharp snap of his hips. 

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded, his eyes starting to sting as tears prickled behind them. He bit his bottom lip and moaned as Derek kept up the lazy pace. 

A warm palm cupped his cheek, fingers pressing into his jawline. “Are you okay?” Derek asked, and Stiles nodded with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he said unconvincingly, tears falling loose as if to call him a liar. “I'm just...thinking.”

Derek let out a shuddering breath and buried his nose into the crook of Stiles' neck. “Dangerous,” he murmured, making the younger man laugh. “You can talk to me.” He raised his head, wiping the wetness from beneath Stiles' beautiful eyes. 

Stiles opened his mouth just as Derek thrust quick and hard into him. His head fell back on the pillows, and he cried out, breathing harshly for a few moments before he tried speaking again. Derek loved to un-do him. 

“I don't...” Stiles faltered, searching for the words he wanted amidst the pleasure he was feeling. “I don't want this to end.”

Derek smirked and thrust a little harder, watching the teen lose himself again. “But ending is the best part.”

Stiles huffed, shaking his head as he ran his fingers through the older man's hair. “I mean us,” he confessed, the words whispered and breathless. “I don't want us to end.”

Derek sat up, bringing Stiles with him so that the younger man was seated on his lap, gangly legs bent on either side. “That's not going to happen,” he promised as he thrust upward. Stiles clutched Derek's shoulders desperately, head falling back to expose his neck. Derek licked a slow trail up under Stiles' jaw. “I won't let it.”

Stiles looked down at him, nodding quickly. “I won't either.”

Derek wrapped a strong arm around the teen's hips, holding him still as he began to roughen his movements and pumping Stiles' straining erection with his free hand. Stiles trembled as he came, Derek finishing a few strokes later as the teen tightened around him. 

Stiles slumped against him, and Derek held the young man tight as the sound of their breathing mingled in the quiet room. 

“I love you,” Stiles said, his words muffled by the werewolf's shoulder. He sat back and took Derek's face in his hands. “I love you so much.”

Derek smiled, hands roving up and down the teen's back as he kissed him. “I love you, too. More than anything.”

0 o 0 o 0

_“Do you, Derek Hale, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband...”_

_Stiles breathed as the words filled his ears. This was it. His forever. His finally. His happily ever after._

_Derek smiled, and he looked so happy as “I do” fell past his lips._

_“And do you, Stiles Winchester, take this man—”_

_Stiles smiled._

_“—to have and to lose—”_

_Wait..._

_“—in sickness and in death—”_

_No, no, no, those weren't the words..._

_“—because you will be the death of him, Stiles.”_

_Derek's smile fell away, and black blood poured from his mouth._

_“Him and everyone around you.”_

_Stiles looked out over his family and friends, mangled and lifeless. The ground soaked in red._

_“Do you, Stiles?” Derek's words were pained, wet._

_Stiles looked back to the other man, and in his place stood a corpse, rotting and holding his hands so, so tight._

_I will follow you._

_I will follow you._

_I will follow you, Stiles._

_Always._

_“I do.”_

0 o 0 o 0

Derek woke to cold sheets, and for a moment panic set in. The sound of the shower starting put him at ease, and he got out of bed, stretching as he padded to the bathroom. He didn't hear the muffled noises until his hand was on the doorknob, and it made his stomach plummet. 

Stiles was crying. 

Derek's fingers tightened around the knob, and he began to twist but stopped as the teen's broken voice echoed in the small bathroom. 

“I'm fine.”

Derek's brows furrowed. Did he know Derek was standing there? Did he not want him to come in?

Another voice sounded from behind the door, this one deep and tinny. It was coming through a cellphone, and it sounded like—

“Pop, I promise,” Stiles sniffled and took a few shuddering breaths. “It was just a bad dream. I just...needed someone to talk to.” Dean's voice sounded again, too quiet to understand over the rush of water from the shower. Stiles huffed. “I didn't want to wake him.” Another pause as Dean spoke. “No, I...I don't want to tell him.” A short response, probably asking the same question that Derek was asking himself. 

_Why?_

“I'm scared,” Stiles admitted, his voice so small and defeated that Derek's heart hurt just to hear the words. “I'm scared if I say it out loud, it'll come true.” Stiles' breathing sounded labored, like his throat was beginning to close. “I can't lose him. Not after everything.”

The crying started again, and Derek couldn't take it anymore. He opened the door, finding Stiles sitting on the floor beside the shower curled in on himself as he held his cellphone to his ear. Steam billowed from behind the shower door, fogged the mirror. Everything was so warm, but Derek shivered as he knelt beside the younger man, clenched his teeth when he took Stiles' free hand and it was freezing. 

“You're not losing me. Ever,” he said sternly, holding his other hand out. 

Stiles placed the phone in it without protest, gripping Derek's hand tight. 

Derek brought the phone to his ear. “It's okay. I've got him.”

Dean's sigh crackled through the phone. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Yes, Sir.” Derek ended the call, setting the phone on the counter. Stiles wasn't looking at him. “Stiles?” 

The younger man closed his eyes, tears loosing and falling down his face. Derek sighed and turned so that his back was to the wall, mirroring Stiles' position as he sat. They stayed quiet for a long time before the older man spoke. 

“I have nightmares, too.”

“I know,” Stiles said quietly, and Derek turned to look at him. 

“You do?”

The teen nodded. “I feel like...” Stiles started, then hesitated, shaking his head like he was re-thinking the words he wanted to say. Derek slipped a hand into his, squeezing it encouragingly. “I feel like I see them sometimes.” He looked at Derek, and his eyes were wide, scared. “Your dreams.” Stiles swallowed. “Nightmares.”

Derek's jaw clenched. “You can talk to me, Stiles. Always.”

Stiles nodded. “I know. You can talk to me, too.”

Derek nodded in return, gaze shifting to the shower. “We really shouldn't waste all that hot water.”

One corner of Stiles' mouth quirked, and he wiped at his face. “No. We shouldn't.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles scanned the darkness beyond the treeline, squinting as if he might somehow develop infrared vision all of a sudden.

He didn't. But it was worth a shot. 

Christ Argent stood beside him, gun in hand as he waited patiently for Stiles to finish his inspection. 

With an approving nod, the teen said, “It's solid. They won't be able to pass the town line without alerting us.”

“Without alerting _you_ ,” Chris corrected. They shared a grim look. “Stiles, if anything happens to you before they get here—” 

“It won't,” Stiles interrupted, turning to face his jeep and sticking his hands in his pockets. “That's why I have you.”

Chris paused. “And Derek.”

Stiles was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said, starting towards his jeep. “And Derek.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles stepped out of his jeep and sighed—he'd been doing that far more often than any teen should. He was exhausted. He'd spent most of the day driving from one end of Beacon Hills to the other, checking the wards he'd placed on the town lines, talking with Deaton about the limits of his powers, discussing strategies and possible allies with Francesca. 

There were plans for training with the pack later that night, but now...

He glanced up at the cheery sign of the Beacon Hills Bakery, and his stomach twisted. He hadn't eaten all day, but he was far from hungry. Thank God Scott would be there to eat most of the cake samples Lydia had picked out. 

“Hey,” someone said beside him, and he jumped. 

“Derek,” he said breathlessly. “Hey.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” Derek smiled gently and rubbed Stiles' back. The teen leaned into the touch. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I'm just a little...distracted.”

Derek stepped forward a bit so that their chests were flush against each other. Warm fingers ghosted down Stiles' cheek and neck, making him shiver. “You need some rest.”

Stiles nodded his agreement. “Later,” he sighed, gaze wandering towards the bakery. His eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you weren't going to make it. Didn't you want to get a head start on training?”

Derek pressed against his side, arm circling the younger man's waist. “I decided this was more important.”

Stiles sagged into the touch. “I think training is a little more important than cake flavors.”

“So is getting some rest,” Derek murmured into the teen's ear as they started towards the bakery.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles dry-heaved into the toilet of the bakery restroom, spitting the taste of bile, stomach acid, and butter cream frosting out of his mouth. Derek was crouched at his side, rubbing circles into his back and offering sympathetic looks. The teen closed his eyes and breathed, willing the nausea away. 

“Sorry,” he said, swallowing with a wince as he reached up and flushed mess away. “I guess sugar on an empty stomach was a bad idea.”

“Probably,” Derek agreed, helping him shift so that he was sitting with his back to the stall wall. “You need to get some sleep.”

“So you keep saying,” Stiles sighed, smiling wanly at his fiance. “There's so much to do.”

“Lydia and I can handle the wedding plans.”

“I'm not talking about wedding plans.” Stiles sucked in a breath after he said the words. They were harsher than he'd meant them to be. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Derek shook his head, an understanding look crossing his face. 

“We're as prepared as we're going to be, Stiles. Really, you've done enough. You're no good to us if you're too exhausted to stand.” Derek cupped Stiles' face. “We need you. So you have to take care of yourself.”

Stiles clutched at the hand like a lifeline, nodding with only slight reservation. He didn't want to be the one on the sideline while everyone was gearing up to fight. 

But Derek had a point. 

The door to the restroom opened, and Scott's voice echoed off the bland tile. 

“Stiles? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I'm fine. But I'm gonna head home.”

“Dude, this cake lady is freaking out,” Scott whispered, the words hurried and not as quiet as he probably thought they were. “She thinks she made you sick.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and attempted a chuckle. “I'm sure Lydia will calm her down.” He stood with Derek's help and left the stall, pausing at the sink to wash his hands and swish some water in his mouth. “I think I'll leave the rest of the cake tasting to you and her.” 

Scott looked unsure. “Okay.”

“I'll take him home,” Derek said, wrapping an arm around the younger man as they made their way out of the bathroom.

The smell of the bakery almost turned Stiles' stomach again, but he breathed deep through his mouth and trusted Derek to lead him outside and to his jeep. 

It was the first time he'd left the bakery without a bag full of sweets. And he had never felt more relieved about that fact. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sighed in relief as he sank into the pillows of his and Derek's bed. He could feel every muscle in his body start to loosen. The headache that had been drilling into his skull began to abate. 

He was so, so tired. 

“Sleep, Stiles,” Derek whispered into his ear, settling at the teen's side and bringing the enormous comforter around them both. Stiles burrowed into the warmth of the older man, resting his head on Derek's chest and throwing an arm and a leg across him. 

“Oh, I totally am,” he murmured, making Derek chuckle. 

Quiet descended. Darkness crept further and further into the corners of his mind. His breathing slowed. He felt sleep. Wanted sleep. _Needed_ sleep. He could almost swear he was starting to dream...

He was in the woods—the edge of town. Three shadowed figures huddled, whispered, ran. Ran over the town line. Ran into Beacon Hills. 

Into _Beacon Hills_. 

Stiles nearly choked as he gasped, pulling out of Derek's warm hold and sitting up violently. 

“Stiles, what—” 

“The line! The town line!” he shouted, the words clawing at his throat. He turned to Derek desperately, knowing— _feeling_ —that his eyes were pitch black. “Someone's crossed it. Someone's _here_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes. I /am/ the worst at updating! Thanks for noticing! And such a short chapter, too. I feel so unaccomplished. :/ BUT we're getting closer to the end!!! That's something!!...Right?
> 
> I hope you all have a splendid day!! Stay warm!!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh goodness. I just love adding people to Stiles' life, okay? And, not to influence your opinion of this OC, but she is, by far, one of my favorite characters ever created in this series. I mean, I loved Ana from the third part, but Frannie just makes me so happy. And I've barely developed her yet! You'll see...You'll see... ;)
> 
> See you all in the next chapter, my friends!!


End file.
